


B-Roll

by rnadison



Category: American Vandal
Genre: M/M, oh yah the whole hee haw gang is in this one fellas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 22:41:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16128248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnadison/pseuds/rnadison
Summary: Things that are the same: the casual back and forth talk Peter and Sam are engaged in as they set up the lights, the tripod. It’s an easy rhythm Kevin can tell that they’ve long since settled into. The bulky tracking device clamped around Kevin’s ankle. The hum of the washing machine in the next room. The orange string bracelet that’s looped around Sam’s wrist, peeking out from underneath his shirt cuffs.Things that are different: Peter is wearing Sam’s sweater.----4 times Peter and Sam act like a couple, and the 1 time they actually are one.





	B-Roll

It’s so subtle, Gabi wonders if _they_ even know it’s happening.

June, 2016. They’re at Peach Valley Diner having a last hoorah before Gabi graduates, slash an impromptu oh-my-god-the-doc-is-doing-amazing celebration. Dylan Maxwell -- someone who, six months ago, she would have never imagined to be sharing a booth with -- is tucked in beside her, while Sam and Peter sit on the other side. Randall Snyder, their third cameraman, has a chair pulled up to their table.

Gabi sips her milkshake as she watches her friends. She sits by the window facing Peter; Sam, Dylan, and Randall have somehow drifted into sports talk. Dylan leans forward on both elbows, and Randall gestures wildly about something or other. Sam is relaxed against the booth, one arm thrown casually over the back; almost across Peter’s shoulders. Peter, lost in a sudden dream, gazes out the window, picking absently at the leftover fries on his plate.

Things don’t get interesting until there’s a lull in the conversation,and Randall reaches across his own empty plate for Peter’s. He doesn’t even make it halfway before a slap on his hand cuts through the air.

“Damn, Peter,” Dylan jokes. “You sure like those fries, huh?” Randall waves an imaginary white flag -- no harm done -- but Peter doesn’t respond, only pulling his plate closer to the condiment stand.

Then Sam asks when Gabi is gonna move out to LA, and the incident pretty much becomes forgotten. That is -- until Sam asks her something about financial aid, and she notices him steal a fry of his own from Peter’s plate. A part of her waits for the slap, a verbal reprimand, but none come: Peter only nods along as Sam describes his experience with researching scholarships. No one else seems to notice that Sam keeps stealing fries without so much as a second thought.

She means to ask about it, but by the time they leave it's all but forgotten.

* * *

November, 2017.

Kevin McClain had always fancied himself rather perceptive -- certainly more so than his peers at St. Bernardine. While the art of deduction could only be perfected by, naturally, Sherlock Holmes himself (Dr. Gregory House being a close second) Kevin is sure that his own skill could do the detective proud. He didn't do all those spot the difference games a child for nothing, now.

And Tuesday and today -- Thursday -- feel like one of those spot-the-difference games.

Things that are the same: the casual back and forth talk Peter and Sam are engaged in as they set up the lights, the tripod. It’s an easy rhythm Kevin can tell that they’ve long since settled into. The bulky tracking device clamped around Kevin’s ankle. The hum of the washing machine in the next room. The orange string bracelet that’s looped around Sam’s wrist, peeking out from underneath his shirt cuffs.

Things that are different: Peter is wearing Sam’s sweater.

Or is the sweater Peter’s,  and Sam just habitually wears it more often? He isn’t sure. It looks big on both of them, the shoulder seams falling midway to their elbows. Kevin remembers it because he commented on it when he first saw it; asked Sam why he didn’t invest in a less ill-fitting garment. “I just like it,” Sam had said, pulling the sleeves over his hands, and the subject had been dropped.

But more importantly, how did Peter even get the sweater? He’s seen Chloe’s guest house, it’s almost as big as his first floor. There are two bedrooms inside, located on opposite sides of the house. It’s a fair assumption that Sam might just leave his clothes laying around, but then what would prompt Peter to take it in the first place…?

Sam glances over at him. “Hey, Kevin. You alright?”

Perched on the arm of a chair, Kevin wills himself from the interior workings of Chloe’s guest house to the living room of his own house. “Yes -- I do apologize, I was … simply clearing my mind before the interview.”

As they continue to set up, he wonders if he should say something. Commenting on something like this feels … out of place, even for Kevin. Like mentioning to Chloe that she has a pimple or three right before an exam.

Eventually, they tell him they’re ready, and he sits down in front of the camera.

“Okay, Kevin -- say something so we know the mic is synced up.”

Kevin pauses.

“I like your sweater, Peter.”

* * *

Chloe knocks on the door with her PJ-slippered foot. Seriously, does her family really need a real, polished mahogany serving tray? It truly is oh-so-luxurious when all it’s carrying are empty mugs, a thermos, and a box of crackers. She waits a few moments, the cold nipping at her cheeks.  “Hey guys -- it’s Chloe?”

The door opens at last, and it’s Sam, who brightens when he sees her. It’s a rare sighting of him sans hair gel, and his bangs fall flat across his forehead. “Oh, hey!”

“I come bearing gifts,” she grins, and Sam steps aside to let her in. “Just some hot chocolate… and crackers, for you intrepid, fearless journalists.”

“Oh, awesome, thanks!” Sam says, and she gives him a frown of confusion when she realizes how softly he’s speaking.

“Why are we w --- oh.”  She rounds the corner to the living room, and who’s there fast asleep but the other intrepid, fearless journalist, Peter. “Wow,” she says, setting the tray on the coffee table. “I didn’t know he slept. I feel like I should take a picture or something.”

“Yeah -- he was like that when I got out of the shower.” Sam drags one of the throws from the couch and spreads it evenly across his friend; then, he sits on the edge of the couch and gently starts peeling Peter’s shoes off. “I’m actually really surprised he’s even out before midnight. Pete sleeps pretty late, even when we’re not investigating poop crimes.”

Chloe digests this for a few minutes. The other shoe hits the rug with a gentle thud. “How long have you guys been friends?”

“Oh … maybe third grade? Fourth? Something like that.” He pops open the lid of the thermos. “It’s kinda dumb, but … we played pretend a lot on the playground together. Even then he just wanted to make stories.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.”

He smiles into his mug, and Chloe can tell it’s not just the cocoa that’s warming him up.

They talk for a little while longer, about the progress on the case, shooting some nowhere theories just for fun. But she doesn’t want to stay too long, because there’s a bitch of a calc test tomorrow that she needs to review for just one last time. So she bids him goodnight, but when she turns around to give a final wave, she thinks she sees Sam give Peter’s hair a -- almost affectionate -- tousle.

* * *

December. 

Demarcus Tillman is Mr. Untouchable. It’s a known facet of the universe, an axiom that grounds the world -- or at least, the world of St. Bernardine -- in place. And it’s not just on the court, either. Demarcus hasn’t come down with a cold, flu, or stomach bug since the ninth grade, and him and Lou plan to keep it that way, thank you very much.

So when Sam keeps sniffling during a gym interview, culminating in a wet-sounding cough, Lou holds a hand out in front of Demarcus’ chest.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, bro. Whatchu got there?”

“Nothing. Allergies, I guess.”

Lou shakes his head. “Can’t risk Demarcus getting your cooties, man.”

Peter turns to him. “Are you sick?”

Sam gives him a look of disbelief. “ _No,_ Peter.”

There’s a pause. Sam gives another sniffle.

“Let me check. Put down the camera.”

Sam puts it down on a bleacher with a resigned sigh, and limply subjects himself to Peter’s hands gently pressed against his throat, his forehead. “You’re burning up,” Peter says quietly.

“It’s the lights --”

“You should’ve stayed home today."

“ _Peter --_ ”

On the bleachers, Lou and Demarcus exchange a look. It feels … wrong, to see them like this. How easily they slipped from detached professionalism to … something else.

Demarcus leans in and whispers, almost conspiratorially: “Aye, is it just me, or do they fight just like a married couple?”

Lou snickers. “It don’t seem like fighting, though. Almost like … nagging.”

Indeed, by now Sam is rolling his eyes as Peter roots through his backpack, then shoves a bottle of pills into Sam’s hands. Something about _take one now and one after we eat later._ Sam looks him square in the eye, unscrews the lid, and promptly dry-swallows a pill on the spot.

He raises his eyebrows. _Happy?_

But Peter is already digging into his jacket pockets, pulling out his absurdly huge keyring. “There’s a pack of water bottles in the car. Go get one and --”

“Oh, come on, Peter --”

“Get one and I want you to have it with you all day, alright?”

“Ugh --”

“It’ll help with the cough, it’s good to be hydrated when you’re sick.”

“Yeah, too bad I’m not.”

But Sam takes the keys and heads out anyway. Peter turns back to Lou and Demarcus, who fix him with open-mouthed grins of disbelief.

“What?”

Demarcus gives him a shit-eating grin. “Nothin’, man, it’s just cute how you take care of your boy like that, that’s all.”

Peter blinks. “I don’t want him to be sick when we’re filming.”

Lou laughs. “Naw, it’s okay, Pete. Your secret’s safe with us.”

Peter can feel his ears turning red. “It’s not a --”

“You know, Pete, if that’s how you feel… you gotta snatch him up ‘fore someone else does, that’s all I’m sayin’,” Demarcus joins in. “Eighth grade, I didn’t tell Tessa Strong I had a crush on her? And I feel it to this day, man.” He beats his palm against his chest and shakes his head, mock-heartbroken, and Lou only laughs harder.

* * *

March. 2018.

Gabi’s in town for a few days for spring break, so the old gang figured the time was nigh for another diner powwow. Randall is at some week-long Boy Scout thing, though, and Ming is visiting relatives in Toronto, so it’s just the four of them this time. Gabi’s there first, followed, surprisingly, by Dylan.

“They’re not here yet?” Dylan asks as he slides in across from her. She shakes her head. “Shit, I thought I was the one who was gonna be late.”

They talk for a little, about this and that. Gabi finds out Dylan works at a daycare now.

“Oh, yeah, all those little shitheads,” he says. “They’re so hyper, climbin’ all over me all the time. Drooling everywhere. But it’s fun, I enjoy it. ‘Course, Miss Pepper wasn’t too thrilled about the dick drawing thing, but she’s showing the kids how to draw dogs and cats and stuff, so maybe I can learn to draw new stuff too.”

She’s about to ask how he got the job, but outside a car door slams. Sam and Peter are getting out of Peter’s “mom car,” christened Sue-baru (lovingly chosen by Sam), still in conversation. Sam says something, Peter laughs. Peter reaches forward and flattens down Sam’s hair, just a bit. Gabi’s about to say something else, too -- opens her mouth to comment on how _differently_ Sam and Peter have been acting (maybe they’ve just grown up?) but she shuts up immediately at what follows.

Sam had just leaned in, hand on Peter’s jaw and all, and pressed his lips to Peter’s.

“Oh,” Dylan says. “Ohhhh my God. I totally knew it.”

It’s not a long kiss by any means -- just a quick one, a _come-on-let’s-go_ kind of kiss, but it’s enough. Peter turns away, embarrassed, but Sam takes his hand and pulls him to the door.

“Oh my God,” Dylan keeps saying. “Oh my God --” The bell above the door tinkles, and he turns around in the booth, one arm slung behind him. “Hope you didn’t use tongue out there, Ecklund!”

For the first time in a long time, Gabi feels secondhand embarrassment for Sam. Some patrons glance curiously at them; it’s his turn to flush madly (he always blushed easily) as he scoots in next to Gabi, crimson coloring his face to the tips of his ears. Peter looks like he wants to evaporate.

“Ah … so you guys … saw that.”

“How could we not, dude, we’re right by the window,” Dylan says. He thumps Peter on the back. “But holy shit, I didn’t think you guys were actually gonna, like, bang!”

Peter turns to Gabi with pleading eyes.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” she says. “I had my suspicions. But more importantly -- when did it happen? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Sam cards a hand through his hair. “ _When_ is easy -- it was January of this year. January third. But for the _why_ …” he gestures to Peter, who takes a breath.

“It was my idea to keep it a secret. I thought if it got out, that, you know … we’re …” he gestures between them. “People would … view the docs differently. And not to mention it would probably screw up people’s willingness to be interviewed by us.”

Gabi gives a nod of sympathy, but Dylan gives a loud scoff. “Man, fuck them. Who needs them? To be honest, I thought you guys were already dating when you were still covering the dick drawings.”

Peter splutters, and Sam and Gabi laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> sooo this was super hard, because the people watching them fall in love had to be clueless, but not completely, about it. oof.
> 
> also: in case it wasn't super clear, i intended for demarcus to be the one to push peter into 'snatching sam up', lol. they got together right after new years bc well ,,, yanno ... they kissed on new year's!! i loved that idea, maybe one day i'll do a spin off with all this. 
> 
> as always, come say hi to me on tumblr @connorsquarter!


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